


Cas' Favourite Sound

by EminEmily



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 17:57:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1356706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EminEmily/pseuds/EminEmily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas doesn't have a favourite sound. And then he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cas' Favourite Sound

**Author's Note:**

> A little drabble I wrote when I stumbled across a writing prompt about writing a character's favourite sound. It's more focused on Cas, but there is some Destiel in it. It's my little headcanon for Cas' favourite sound, and a couple of his other favourite things. Feedback is appreciated and welcomed!

When Castiel was first brought into existence, specially crafted by the hands of The Creator himself, he could hear everything. He could hear atoms splitting and coming together again, he could hear nebulae in distant galaxies. He could hear the shuffling movements of the tiniest amoeba as it began its journey through evolution. He could hear _everything_ in existence, and could never possibly pick his favorite sound.

Later, Castiel could hear humans everywhere. He could hear their thoughts, their emotions, the movement of their fragile bones under their paper-thin skin. He could hear a child cough from literally thousands of miles away. He could hear the tiniest utterance of a prayer, and still could not find his favorite sound.

When Castiel found The Righteous Man in Hell, he could tell, then, that he did have a least favorite sound. He hated the sound of screaming, of suffering. He hated the sound of a man begging him to put him back on the rack and take someone else, anyone else, because he didn’t deserve to be saved. He hated the sound someone made when they were forced to dig themselves out of their own grave while he stood, invisible, forced into inaction by the will of his superiors. _You are not allowed to help, Castiel_ , they had told him, or whatever the equivalent that angels without vessels did instead of speaking. _He has fought many of his own battles, and they have made him strong. They have made him righteous. You cannot intervene this time. The Righteous Man must raise himself, for he is our Lazarus and he will be our salvation. He must make many difficult decisions in the future, and hardship will always be the song of his soul. You mustn’t interfere, Castiel, you must let The Prophecy go on unperturbed. It is not your place to question. You must let him fight his own battles_ , they chastised.

Castiel decided then that he didn’t like the sound of someone telling him it wasn’t his place to help.

When Castiel began to travel more with the Winchesters, when he found himself in the backseat of the Impala more than he did taking flight by himself, he decided that one of his favorite sounds was the bickering of the Winchester brothers. Dean often used references he didn’t understand, or made jokes that Castiel didn’t see as insulting, but he heard the loving undertones underneath each word, and if he could drown in that tone, he would. He would drown in the sound of Dean snorting when Sam had a well-placed comeback that Dean didn’t know how to respond to, he would drown in Dean’s laughter when he’d thought he made a good joke, when Sam’s responding “bitchface” made Dean laugh harder than Castiel had ever heard. He could hear every movement in their faces when they smiled at each other, when Sam pushed his hair away from his eyes and grinned, sugar sweet, at Dean before leaning over and punching him, or doing something else to aggravate the older Winchester. Castiel didn’t think he would ever understand a sibling relationship like theirs, but it was amazing to watch it unfold before him.

Castiel loved the sound of classic rock. It was hard for him to pick a favorite kind of music; he hadn’t heard much of it. He’d heard the early chants when humanity had just discovered rhythm and rhyme, the songs they used to tell stories and epics during ancient times. He’d heard the music nature made when he escaped into a forest; babbling brooks and insects making melodies in his form’s approximation of ears. He’d heard a little of classical piano music, hearing every uptick of noise as the pianist’s hands danced across the ivory keys, every noise the foot pedals made as they were pushed. He hadn’t heard much of what would be considered conventional or modern music, but he seemed to have acquired a taste for classic rock. He liked the harsh guitars, the guttural voices. He loved the clash of drums and the beat of the bass that he could feel in his bones when Dean had the radio up too loud.

He voiced his feelings to Dean one day, while sitting in the back of the Impala, hands fisted in his lap and trying his best to sit up straight, despite the soft leather of the seat begging him to lean back and relax. Dean had just shaken his head and laughed under his breath.

"Only you would take something as simple as music and make it into that. Just sit back and enjoy it, Cas. Though I am proud of you for liking this, you have nice tastes."

Castiel wanted to reply that Dean didn’t understand, he couldn’t hear what Castiel heard in the music. Dean couldn’t hear the almost silent breaths the singer took before singing, he couldn’t hear the emotion in the words that Castiel could hear, could feel inside himself. Dean could hear the music, hear the melody, hear the words, feel the emotion, but he could never hear it like Cas. He could never hear the rough sound of the bassist’s fingertips as they brushed across the wood of his guitar by accident, he couldn’t hear the sound of minuscule cracks being born in the drummer’s sticks as he played his soul out on his canvas-covered cylinders. He couldn’t hear every reverberation of the cymbals as they rang themselves silent. Castiel could hear every sound, and he loved every minute of it. And maybe, just maybe, he loved it because Dean did.

When Castiel fell, there were many things he missed. He missed his family, he missed his mind being occupied by the voices of his millions of siblings, he missed his wings, he missed his sight. But maybe the thing he missed most of all was his hearing. He could no longer hear the sound of a wildcat traipsing silently through the forest in the Amazon jungle while he was halfway across the world. He couldn’t hear muscles shifting under Dean’s skin as he moved around the bunker. He couldn’t hear thoughts, he couldn’t hear emotions. He’d practically gone deaf compared to what he once was, but he also gained more than he ever had before. When Castiel was an angel, it was hard to sit and concentrate on one sound because there were millions upon millions of other sounds to be heard. Things happening all over the universe, and he was privy to every single one of them. Now that he was human and had lost the ability, he gained a sort of laser focus that he didn’t have before. He could listen to the sound of a coffee maker brewing coffee without also hearing the conversation of a couple in India, fighting over a colour choice of their wedding. He could listen to music without hearing every single noise the instruments made, including the bad ones. He gained a new appreciation that he didn’t have before when it came to classic rock music, and Dean was even more proud of him because of it. Sometimes Castiel thought the proud look in Dean’s eyes as he praised his favourite music on high was enough to fall for.

Being human meant that Castiel developed tastes. He had to have a favorite colour (green, like new plants and Dean’s eyes), he had to have a preference for clothing (large sweaters and tight jeans, much to Dean’s dismay - and delight at seeing his ass framed like that in denim). He had to have a favourite food (fruit, kiwi to be specific. He loved the colour and the fact that there was a bird of the same name). He had to have a favourite song (Hey Jude by the Beatles, hearing Dean hum it under his breath for all those years made it grow on him). Most of all, he had to have a favourite sound.

It was a hard thing to pick. Castiel could still remember the sounds of everything he used to hear, he just couldn’t hear them anymore. He had, literally, billions of options, and he had to pick just one. So when the time came, Castiel decided that, of everything else he could have picked, his favourite sound was the way Dean said his name when he woke up in the morning; a greeting, a prayer, and a declaration of love all rolled up in one syllable. He loved the meaning behind the name, the idea that Dean had given it to him immediately, despite the fact that Castiel could kill him with barely a thought. In some ways, that name was the first thing that tugged at the iron walls around Castiel’s devotion to his duty. That name was the thing that caused Castiel to question everything he had known. He questioned what kind of human would dare to shorten his God-given name into just a syllable. 

When Dean woke up in the morning, his voice was deeper and scratchier than Castiel had ever heard it. Sleep crowded his throat and strangled every sound he made, and yet, the first thing he chose to say was Cas’ name. The first thing he chose to do was reach across the sheets to check if Castiel was still there, to grab his body and pull him close, nestle his face into the crook of Castiel’s shoulder. He would whisper it, reverent and tender. He would say it, loud and discordant. And on certain days when Castiel woke up needing him, Dean would moan it while his hand carded through Castiel’s hair.

Castiel had heard more sounds than he could ever hope to name, and yet, his very favourite sound was but a syllable, and was given to him by a man who had fought him at every turn, until he finally let himself give in. Sometimes, Castiel almost regretted falling, and then he heard his name in the early light of day, whispered across the scant inches between him and his Righteous Man, and he regretted nothing at all.


End file.
